Something, Not Someone
by Fatalic Wolf
Summary: Hermione lives a life far different from what her friends see. Her parents hate her and abuse her. She's scared they're going to kill her. What happens when one of her Hogwarts friends finds out a makes a promise he can't keep to her? Can she forgive him?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own neither the song lyrics nor the Harry Potter characters used in this story. I am neither trying to be J. K. Rowling nor am I making any money whatsoever off of this work of fan fiction. _"I solemnly swear I am up to no good: mischief managed."_

**Something, Not Someone**

**------ Chapter 1 ------**

"…_I hear him scream from down the hall_

_Amazing she can't even talk at all_

_She cries to me, go back to bed_

_I'm terrifeid that she'll wind up dead in his hands_

_She's just a woman, never again_

_Been there before, but not like this_

_Seen it before, but not like this_

_Never before have I ever seen it this bad_

_She's just a woman, never again_

'_Just tell the nurse you slipped and fell'_

_It starts to sting as it starts to swell_

_She looks at you, she wants the truth_

_It's right out there in waiting room with those hands…"_

Fear; the one word to describe Hermione's life. At school there used to be the fear she wasn't going to be good enough. Then, when she realized she was good enough, there was the fear that she was too good, but not much she felt she could do about it. There was the fear she didn't look good enough, act normal enough. At home, though, it was a different kind of fear. There was the fear she wasn't doing something fast enough to suit her parents, fear that she wasn't quiet enough for them. Fear that they were going to hurt her again.

Right now she was cowering in her room, trying to stay as quiet as she could and not draw their attention to her. She already had a bruise forming on her left thigh from the morning when she had accidentally dropped a plate on the floor. There had been nothing on it and it hadn't broken, but still her father had gotten angry and told her she needed put back in her place. The thirteen-year-old felt bad, like it really had been her fault, but she knew it wasn't; everyone has accidents.

Since then she had been sitting in her darkening room without moving. She was getting desperate to use the bathroom, but she knew she would be hurt if she tried to run down the hall and into the bathroom. Her father never let her use it when she "had been bad", which was almost all the time. Instead she had to wait until he went unconscious from the amount of alcohol in his system. Her mother was too intent on playing on her damn computer to notice if her despised offspring crept into the bathroom to relieve herself.

She stared at the digital clock on her dresser. It read 12:09 a.m. If she were lucky, in about another hour her father would. Pass out in his bedroom. She dragged her bruised knees up to her chest and hugged them close, wishing for some sort of comfort, but bitterly accepting that it wasn't going to come for her. She began to realize that it wouldn't be long before she was killed at this rate. She shuddered at the thought and unclenched her knees. She slowly crept across her room in the dark so as not to agitate her father. A floorboard squeaked and she felt her heart plummet into her toes. Luckily, he had not heard it. She resumed her short journey across her room and to her trunk, which contained her wand, Clasping it tightly in her right hand, she made her way back across her small room, stepping over the spot where she believed the squeaky floorboard lay.

She laid on her bed, heart pounding as she recovered from her scare. She lay there for an amount of time which she knew not before peering at the clock. It read 12:58; close enough. She carefully tip-toed to her door before she crawled on all fours to the bathroom. Everything went fine there as well as on the return trip to her room, for which she was thankful. As her mother was passed out as well, she turned on the light in her room to examine herself in the mirror. The image she saw scared even her.

The girl staring back at her looked to be about 15 instead of 13, but not in a good way. She had the look of a child who had been forced to grow up too quickly, the look of a child who didn't understand the meaning of play or even how to. Her hair was too bushy, her frame too thin, her eyes too hollow. Bags lay under her hazel eyes betraying the nights of fear during which she hadn't been able to even consider sleeping. A healing cut crossed over her left eye, her right eye was black, and a fresh, deep wound ran down the right side of her face from her hairline to the bottom of her jaw bruises covered her in too many places and colours to name.

Upset, Hermione looked away from the mirror and turned off her light. When had her life gotten so bad? Than again, when had her life not been this bad? There was always the negative pressure that made her work harder at school to succeed, but what did that matter anymore if the odds were that she wouldn't live long enough to graduate? She cried quietly until she cried herself into a turbulent, unrestful sleep filled with pain and fear…

"_This world, this world is cold_

_But you don't, you don't have to go_

_You're feelin' sad, you're feelin' lonely_

_And no one seems to care_

_Your mother's gone and your father hits you_

_This pain you cannot bear_

_But we all bleed the same way as you do_

_And we all have the same things to go through_

_Hold on, if you feel like letting go_

_Hold on, it gets better than you know_

_Your days, you say they're way too long_

_And your nights, you can't sleep at all _

_Hold on_

_You're not sure what you're waiting for_

_But you don't want know more_

_You're not sure what you're looking for_

_But you don't want to know more…_

…_Don't stop looking, you're one step closer_

_Don't stop searching, it's not over_

_Hold on…"_

**A/N: The first song, **_**Never Again**_**, is by Nickelback. The second song used, **_**Hold On**_**, is by Good Charlotte…no, they're not mine.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Dim light filtered in through the dirty window in Hermione's room as she painfully opened her eyes. Her whole body ached, as was usual for her while she was held prisoner at her so-called home. A brief glance at her alarm clock told her she was almost ten minutes behind schedule, so she quickly jumped out of bed, threw on yesterday's clothes (she had no others at the moment), and ran downstairs. Once there she raced down a hall, nearly falling on the slippery floor, and through an open doorway into the kitchen.

She ran to the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of eggs inside it. Then she brought them to the table and pulled out a bowl to crack them into. Quickly she did this and then she carefully seasoned them to her parents' liking. She heated up the skillet, cursing herself for not doing this as she was preparing the eggs, and began making toast. She ran to the refrigerator once again and pulled out a package of bacon and heated up another skillet to cook it in. By this time the pan for the eggs was hot and she began cooking them to perfection, knowing she would pay dearly if they weren't good enough.

She felt like crying from the stress as she began placing bacon in the other pan, burning herself on the edge of the burner. The bacon sizzled, spraying her with hot grease and the eggs weren't cooking quite fast enough. She was still two minutes behind schedule. She turned up the heat and prayed that they wouldn't scorch or burn.

At precisely 8:00, her parents came in for their breakfast; each was dressed sharply in fancy clothes for their fancy dentist's offices. She piled their plates with bacon and then laid the toast down and spread eggs over top of them. She smiled as if this were the high point of her entire day, but inside hate burned stronger than ever for them and for herself.

They ate without acknowledging her, got up, and left. They left her to clean up their mess as usual and headed off to work. Hermione sighed with relief as she began scrubbing plates and silverware. She cleaned the two pans she'd used and then went back to her room to collapse on her bed. She hadn't eaten breakfast, but her stomach didn't complain; it was used to this. Her parents rarely ever let her eat breakfast and never in sight of them.

She quietly left the kitchen with the dishes drying in their rack and collapsed on the sofa, beaten already. Lately she hadn't the slightest bit of energy; depression does that to a person. She hurt so badly, but emotionally instead of physically. Through the years of this pain and torment she'd learned not to feel the physical pain if she chose not to. No, it was an outlet for the emotional pain she sought.

She thought of something, maybe not the best way, that she knew, but yet it was an outlet she so desperately needed. Walking into the bathroom she pulled out a sharp object that lay in plain sight; a razor. It took her a moment to work the blade free, but finally she did. The shiny bit of metal gleamed evilly in the bright light of the bathroom. For a moment Hermione stared at herself, not sure where to inflict the first wound. Finally she selected her wrist, the most accessible place.

She hesitated only a split second before bringing the sharp blade to her tender wrist. Slowly she drew it across it, creating a line that quickly vanished beneath the dark red blood that welled up to the surface of the new injury. Pain seared through her wrist for a moment and then faded away briefly before becoming a stinging, throbbing pain that didn't go away. She didn't try to ignore it, the pain, that is. Instead she took pleasure in it, imagined her emotional pain flowing out from her as did the dark red stream of blood. Raising the blade a second time, she made another diagonal slash on her other wrist, sucking in her breath at the initial pain before it became her evil collaborator.

Blood was flowing from her injured wrists and splattering the floor, temporarily staining it red. After a couple minutes, the bleeding stopped in the wrist she first cut and the blood began to dry and form a protective coating over the wound. The other wrist, however, just wouldn't stop bleeding. Fear began to plague Hermione's mind, as she wrapped some toilet paper around it. The blood soaked through it in seconds.

Feeling slightly faint, she grabbed more and pressed it hard against her wrist, turning off the pain as easily as flipping a switch. She backed out of the small room and to her room where she kept gauze and a roll of medical tape for doctoring herself after her parents attacked her. The bandage was stained bright red several minutes after she applied it, so she wrapped another layer of tape around it. Since when had her life come to this?


End file.
